


Diptych

by Himring



Series: Gloom, Doom and Maedhros [30]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blasphemy, Brothers, Gen, Insanity, Prayer, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himring/pseuds/Himring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros looks back from Mithrim, remembering his time on Thangorodrim and in the dungeons of Angband.</p><p>(Archive warnings do not really apply. However, see additional tags for warnings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thangorodrim: Moment by Moment

**Author's Note:**

> The blasphemy warning (in the tags) concerns Eru, so whether it's actually blasphemy will depend on what status you accord Eru.
> 
>  
> 
> (Names: Findekano=Fingon, Maitimo=Maedhros, Makalaure=Maglor)

 

You would have thought that his recent experiences would have taught him not to address Eru directly, but he was brought up that way and such habits are hard to break, especially if you are insane and dangling off a cliff face. And so he opens his mouth and says—or maybe, in fact, doesn’t say, but merely thinks:

‘Only save my family and my people—and I promise I will hang here without complaint until the end of Arda!’

...and hangs there for a moment in a blaze of sincerity. Then the utter absurdity of that plea strikes him, and he lets out a tiny croak of laughter. For what has he got to offer, really?

As for his body, he’s hardly going to walk away from here, is he?  And as for his mind, as for any oh-so-elevated spiritual sacrifice, he meant just now what he said—no doubt about it—but he’s not in control of that either, from moment to moment. His body may be locked in place by the manacle and his own weight, but his thoughts have slipped their reins.

One moment he’s pleading for life, the next for death, and then he doesn’t care either way, for his only concern is how his brothers are coping, alone and lost in Beleriand. He forgets about that and chases after his father again all the way to Mandos, only to hear the black iron doors clanging shut behind him, then writhes helplessly on the rock because the Ice, because Elenwe...  What was it about Elenwe? He does not know any more, and he curses them all, viciously, because they just won’t leave him alone, why won’t they leave him alone, can’t they see he’s chained to a rock and can’t do anything for them? Forgets that, too, and plunges back into a bewildering kaleidoscope of memories and emotions. Feels all kinds of things, means all kind of things; there is even, once, a quiet cool moment of pity for Morgoth, because he cannot know... But the very next moment he doesn’t remember what it is Morgoth cannot know.

Darkness subsumes all, and he wakes up with water running over his face and wonders who’s crying, wakes up again and wonders how long he was out of his mind this time. Does it matter? The rest of Arda seems so far away.

***

_He was uncomfortably aware that most of the Noldor regarded his rescue as evidence of the mercy of the Valar. He could not match that up with his experience. On the mountain, his pleas for life had been no more heart-felt than his pleas for death. Since then, life had become an obligation, and now the challenge was with how much grace he could manage to consent to meet it._

_It was only Feanorian perversity, he thought, that made him imagine that Findekano had appeared on the slope down below just after he had made that absurd request, as if Eru had not only rejected his meaningless sacrifice, but, so to speak, kicked him in the teeth—demonstrating to him, as if he had not already confessed it, how quickly he could be reduced to begging for any kind of release, when the chance offered... But there could be no such connection. He had had no sense of time on the mountain or any sense of order of events. There was no logic, no pattern to his memories; he must not try to impose one in retrospect._

_It was safer, really, not to think about such things. There was no reason to assume that anybody had been listening at all, up there. Why should they—to the babblings of a madman?_

_He decided to concentrate instead on his memory of Findekano praying to Manwe and receiving, instantly, an unambiguous answer. That was all right, he felt. People like Findekano ought to have their prayers answered._

 


	2. Angband: Not As Bad As It Looks

 

There was one particular wound in his side that was, after all this time, still healing badly; it was deep, inflamed and suppurating, with a tendency to break open whenever he moved. The sight of the festering wound seemed to distress Makalaure so much, whenever he took off the bandage, that Maitimo at length felt impelled to try and console him. The wound, he told him, wasn’t as bad as it looked.

Makalaure was clearly unconvinced, so Maitimo explained that the orc who had inflicted it had been intent only on causing pain. Registering Makalaure’s incomprehension, he explained further that the pain had been intense at the time, of course, but he had passed out eventually, and this particular orc had been quite unsophisticated, really, hadn’t tried to extract pleas for mercy, humiliation or surrender... And saw himself mirrored in his brother’s eyes.

He heard his own voice falter, trying to explain the self-evident facts of Angband to Makalaure, and whatever fragments of pragmatism he had managed to shore up in the darkness of the dungeons slipped away from him. He had been used, he was soiled; he was broken. He felt hot shame creep over him all the way down to his fingers and toes, as he had not felt it in Angband.

Makalaure got a grip on himself, took Maitimo in his arms and started crooning soothing words into his ear. That struck Maitimo as both irrelevant and inappropriate. He would have very much have preferred not to be touched right then and not to touch anybody else. But he thought it would comfort Makalaure to think that he was comforting him, and so he played along as best he could.

And gradually the tightening stranglehold that threatened to cut off his breath turned back into his brother’s familiar embrace, the meaningless jabber in his ears became Makalaure’s beloved voice again.

**Author's Note:**

> Original date of posting: July 24, 2010


End file.
